


Find Me In The Darkness

by MistressofHappyEndings



Series: Outlaw Torn [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8494066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressofHappyEndings/pseuds/MistressofHappyEndings
Summary: Something bad has happened to one of the Seven ... real bad.





	

He wakes abruptly to confusion and pain and a close, stifling darkness. His arms are dangling, heavy and useless, at his sides, and his head knocks against something unforgiving when his neck refuses to hold it up. He gives himself a little shake and tries to raise his hands to explore his prison. He can barely move them upward, having to slide them up his ribs and along his chest then, palms out, against the rough surface in front of him.

He scratches and scratches at the wall before him. There has to be some chink, some groove or hole he can pry at. No prison is inescapable; he believes that with an animal’s desperation to be free. He searches the entire surface as far as he can reach for an exit. He’s too tightly packed into this space to do anything else. He can’t pound on the walls for help; he can’t raise a foot or knee to kick out. So he scrapes and scrapes, fingertips raw and slick with blood, his nails cracking under the pressure, and tries to ignore the shaking of his body, the wet salt track of tears and sweat on his skin, the hot, rapid pant of his own breath against his face.

He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there or where he was before. He can’t remember any kind of before. Why was he here? Did he do something to deserve this? His thoughts are so fuzzy, but the pain is growing ever stronger through the haze. His back suddenly feels like it’s on fire, and something thicker than sweat slithers down from his shoulders in slow rivers. His feet and shoulders ache fiercely with every move he makes, but he doesn’t stop, he can’t. Is this punishment? Has he … has he been buried alive?

He clenches his hands into fists and presses his face against them, trying to muffle the sound of his breathing, his pounding heart. He needs to get hold of himself, to try and figure out what to do, but the fear is such a mighty thing and the pain clouds what little sense he has left to him. A low, despairing wail chokes him, and he starts to bang his head against the unyielding wall of his tiny prison.

Through his rising panic, the sound of voices, faint and muffled, reaches his ears.

“He’s got to be in here somewhere. We’ve just --”

_Estoy aquì estoy aquì por favor estoy aquì no me dejan aquì liberamè liberamè por favor ..._

“Over here, Merciful God, he’s over here!”

“Oh fuck, find something to get this open with!”

_PorfavorporfavorporfavorliberamèliberamèporfavorporfavorPORFAVORLIBERAMÈ!_

A mighty crack, a blinding light, and he spills out of his prison like a newborn animal, all limbs and blood and naked flesh. He doesn’t fall far before he’s caught in strong arms and lowered carefully to the floor. A shrill moan of terror and pain escapes him. He clutches his hands in his hair and hides behind his arms. He’s beginning to remember now.

Out isn’t always good.

He nearly bolts upright when the pressure of an arm around him shoots agony across his abused back. The pressure immediately lessens, and he feels himself being turned sideways in someone’s lap. Careful hands, one around his neck and the other low around his waist, curl around him in gentle support.

“Jesus, look at his back.”

“Geu jasig-eul bil-eo meog-eul!”

He cringes back from the horrified whisper and the angry snarl. More pain always follows anger. He’s not sure how much more he can take. _Por favor, no mas …_

The arms around him gather him protectively closer and support his aching head in the bend of an elbow. Cool fingers brush over his ruined hands before gently tugging them out of his hair. He keeps his eyes tightly shut, wary of a trick; no one has been kind to him for so long. But instead of more pain, he finds himself being slowly rocked and soft-spoken assurances being whispered into his hair.

“All right, that’s enough,” a familiar voice orders quietly above him and his protector. “We’re scaring him. Goody, go find a doctor or healer or whatever the hell they have around here. The rest of you, spread out. This isn’t over yet.”

A soft swish of clothing and the clomp of boots, and he senses that there is just him and the one holding left in the room now. He relaxes fractionally, then even more as something warm and redolent with a familiar smell is draped carefully over his body. He can’t do anything about the tears running down his face or the hiccupping sobs, part pain, part relief.

“Sssh, Gabe, sssh, we found you, you’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you anymore. It’s over, I’ve got you.”

Gabriel Vasquez turns his face into the shelter of a strong shoulder, feels the steady pulse of a heartbeat against his lips, inhales the whiskey and tobacco scent of his best friend. He knows where he is and who he’s with now. The god-forsaken Santos ranch. Joshua. Sam. The rest of the Seven. Safe. Found. Josh’s callused hand smoothes over his sore head, fingers flexing slightly through his sweat-damp curls; he leans into it and just _breathes._

**Author's Note:**

> I have vague thoughts of writing more to this ... let me know what you think.
> 
> Also, I have the thought that this is written a few years after Rose Creek. As such, I find it fairly ridiculous that only Sam, Goody, Billy and Red Harvest would use each other's first names after being together as a group for so long. Hence, the use of Faraday's and Vasquez's (and I'm going to assume Jack's as well) first names. And yes, I gave Vasquez yet another variation of a first name - not that I don't enjoy all the others he's been given so far! - and of course, Faraday would find a way to shorten it to suit himself.


End file.
